Sun Sets
by Punzie the Platypus
Summary: Set post-S3 but before S4. Matthew Crawley's funeral is this afternoon and Mary can barely come to terms with his death. There's only one person who could possibly understand what pain she is going through—his mother, Isobel Crawley.


**_Soli Deo gloria_**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Downton Abbey.**

 **So we're all sad for Mary mourning for Matthew (I mean, we're all sad here . . . I still miss that man . . .) but poor Isobel! Here's what I imagine happening between them.**

The funeral was going to be that afternoon. There were arguments on both sides as to where to bury the heir of Downton Abbey. Isobel, weak from crying and torn in soul, could only offer the request of a heartbroken mother for her son to be buried by his father, from whence they came before any idea of Downton Abbey being a part of their lives ever occurred to either of them. The only one who actually listened to her argument was Violet, surprisingly. "Oh, let the poor woman bury her child where she wants," she said sorrowfully.

Perhaps Mary, if she had been capable of any effort, would've backed Isobel up. Perhaps these two would've been stronger than Cora and Robert. But Robert was firm, ridiculously so even as the family was wreathed in grief. He insisted that the heir of Downton Abbey must be buried in the church graveyard, where all the other heirs of Downton Abbey were laid at their last. "That is where my father is buried and that is where I hope to be buried; I don't see it as not good enough for Matthew," Robert said.

"Even so . . ." Cora said, but even she knew this wasn't a battle she wanted to fight.

Who could fight Robert, when a man he loved like a son was suddenly killed, in the blink of an eye? Cora decided it was best to humor him. Robert had difficulty dealing with grief; if this soothed him, she didn't want to fight it.

Isobel, usually so resolute and full of vim-and-vigor resolve, let him win without raising a finger. "If it's the best," she finally said feebly.

Even these two weren't the worst—Mary hadn't left her bed since the moment Robert broke the news to her. She didn't believe them until Cora sat on the edge of her hospital bed and held her hand. She met her daughter's eyes with her clear eyes full of tears and Mary said, not wanting to believe it, "Mama, it's not true. It _cannot_ be true."

"I'm sorry to say, my dear, that it is," Cora broke to her gently.

Mary couldn't say anything for a moment, her use of tongue struck from her. Her lips fell open and closed like a helpless guppy. She fell into a state of shock; the words wouldn't comprehend in her brain. George still sat at her breast, blissfully unaware of the tragedy struck so early in his young life: his mother was a widow and his father was dead. He met him only once, and that was it. Who would've known that was going to be it?

The funeral was this afternoon and Mary had barely been out of her bed ever since the day she was removed from the hospital to her Downton chambers. The queen sized bed, perfect to hold husband and wife, was too ghastly big without him. Mary met the red eyes of all the staff standing straight in a line to greet her with blank eyes. They were all adorned in strict black clothing, with black bands around their arms. Carson's old solid face was so full of wrinkles as he opened the car door for her, Mary barely recognized him.

That was the last time Mary got fresh air. That was the last time she was outside of this room. This bedroom should've choked her. It was full of hours of memories. If she dared dart down the paths of the past, she could see Matthew admiring her as Anna helped her put on a new necklace in the mirror. She could see him in this bed beside her, the early morning light glinting on his blond hair as he kissed her neck. She could see him pacing the floor, discussing plans for the future—for the estate, for the family, for _their_ family. She could see him everywhere she looked, even when he wasn't there.

And they were supposed to bury him this afternoon.

These two facts were incompatible. How could they be incompatible when they were both as truthful as the other?

There had been murmured talk between Mama, Papa, Grandmama, and Edith (Mary couldn't help but roll her eyes—perhaps Edith _was_ the only daughter able to function right now, but what right did that give her to be a part of a discussion with the 'grownups' as to what they ought to do for Mary and George in this terrible set of circumstances?) about hiring a wet-nurse for George—"She's still so shocked," Cora said.

"She can barely take care of herself. How can we expect her to take care of George at this time?" Robert said sadly, grimly.

When Anna quietly relayed this talk to her, Mary gave her a message to deliver to her parents: "I can nurse George, in mourning or not. I can take care of my son. That is all right." There was so much she couldn't do, so much she couldn't comprehend, could barely fathom. So little she could control. But she could at least take care of her son, the poor innocent in this sad story.

George lay in the cradle; he was dressed and snug in blankets. His hair stuck out as he laid, breathing steadily. Mary sat on the edge of her bed, staring blankly at him. She was adorned as a widow ready for a funeral. Her hair was up and under a black hat with black netting over her face. Her black gloved hands clasped in her lap. Yet . . . how could she be going to a funeral? How could she be going to Matthew Crawley's funeral?

She could hear the approaching cars on the gravel driveway, knew Carson and the footmen were directing their guests indoors. Why didn't they go directly to the church? Why were they stopping in before they created the biggest caravan the village had ever been subjected to? And why was the sun shining? It shouldn't be, should it? It was a funeral day. Funerals were sad. Funerals were horrible. They were everything Matthew Crawley was not. He was sunshine. So why was the sun shining . . . ?

"Will that be all, m'lady?" Anna stood in front of her, having finished putting away her toiletries.

"Yes, that'll be all. Thank you, Anna," Mary said in her even voice.

Anna made to nod her head and then leave, but she stopped, her hand stayed at the doorknob. She retraced her steps, looking up as she said, "I don't mean to intrude, m'lady, on today of all days, but I must ask."

"What is it you _must_ ask, Anna?" Mary wondered crisply.

Anna was undaunted by this tone. She knew that while Mary wasn't as emotionally driven as Lady Edith or even Lady Sybil, she was a woman, a woman with surprising kindness who just lost the love of her life. "If Mr. Bates, God forbid, was ever taken from me, I-I don't know how I'd ever bear it," Anna said. She swallowed and recomposed herself. Even the thought caused a lump to grow in her throat; it had been a horrible week living in a house blanketed by the black cloud of dreadful death. "I cannot imagine the pain you must be in right now. I-I think perhaps it might be easier to bear it with someone. I know I am not your friend, but, perhaps, if you'd like, I could sit with you until the time comes."

Mary swallowed. She _knew_ it was a human gesture on the part of kind-hearted Anna, who couldn't stand seeing a creature in pain if she could help it. But Mary said, "I appreciate the suggestion but I think George is company enough for me. That will be all, Anna."

If Mary looked at Anna's face, she'd see how crestfallen it was. Lady Mary Crawley might be the mother of the heir of Downton Abbey, but Anna wouldn't trade roles with her for all the titles and estates in the entire world.

But Anna knew to follow the orders from her mistress, so she bobbed quickly and left, the click of the door the last sound left in the room.

Mary sat in silence for long after. It would be just minutes now, not hours. Just minutes until she had to confront that which she couldn't. She couldn't bear it. If she faced it all head-on, carrying on like the British lady she was, she'd fall apart. If she fell apart, how could she be put together again? Matthew wasn't there to hold her. She had no one and she knew she couldn't do it herself. She'd fall apart because she was made of pieces; without Matthew, she'd never be whole ever, ever again. It was all she could do to hold the pieces of herself she had left together. That was all she could do. She couldn't risk that.

Another knock sounded on the door. Mary inhaled and said, "Anna, really, I'm fine just by my—"

It wasn't Anna who entered but Isobel Crawley.

Mary could barely finish. "—self." She swallowed. "Isobel."

"Mary," Isobel said, in a controlled voice. Her mournful face spoke more than her voice. She wore her funeral dress, with the appropriate hat and gloves. All this expensive finery couldn't hide the heartache on the poor woman's face. She swallowed.

They had seen each other just once after _it_ happened, and then their words tread on eggshells. It was in the hospital; Isobel went to see her son's body under Mr. Clarkson's medical care. Yet she couldn't leave without first setting eyes on her first and only grandson and Mary, the only other people her poor son left behind besides her. They couldn't talk about the elephant in the room, so they only made light talk about George. "He's beautiful. He looks just like . . ." Isobel caught herself, her eyes dropping as she tried to keep from crying. _He looks just like Matthew._

This was the first time they'd seen each other since that strained hospital visit. Now they both had a reality they had to face together. Just the idea of it was almost too much to bear.

"I thought you were Anna," Mary said lightly, her eyes turning away to fall back onto George. George was a safe subject.

Isobel removed her gloves as she spoke, so she had something to focus on, something to keep her busy. "I met her coming up the stairs. I was just talking with your mother and grandmother. They suggested perhaps we could talk, before the funeral."

"What about?" Mary wondered, as if they didn't have a lifetime of questions to talk about and wish about.

"Well, I think you and I both know what," Isobel said. She stepped forward and Mary realized her bad manners. She revived herself enough to say, "Please, take a seat."

"Thank you." Isobel sat upon the dressing table's chair. A silence reigned that Mary didn't seem personally keen to interrupt, so Isobel cleared her throat and said, "Your mother has some concerns about you."

"Well, if she does, she'd be better discussing them with me than with you," Mary said unfeelingly.

Isobel took no personal insult. "I share these concerns and offered to talk to you about them."

"If they are about George's future, then I have no appetite for discussing them right now. His future doesn't matter right now. It will be secure and that is all that I need to know," Mary said.

"They aren't about George's future; they are about you, your here and now," Isobel said, if a little sharply to get through Mary's indifferent fog. "Your mother has told me you haven't cried since you heard the news of Matthew's death."

"Crying means accepting it. I haven't accepted it yet, that's all," Mary said.

"Well, you must. I know it's terrible; I know it's hard; it's one of the hardest things you will ever have to do, but it is something that you must do," Isobel said firmly, even as her eyes filled with tears. "I know how you feel. You can protest as much as you like, but it still stands as true. I am a widow. I've had to bury a husband. I thought that was the worst thing I ever had to do. But I was wrong. It is much worse to bury your child. Matthew was supposed to outlive me, and now I must watch as they lower his body into the ground."

"So you're saying that since I'm burying Matthew, not George, my grief is not as bad as yours?" Mary asked crisply.

"Not at all. Only, I'm saying that you _must_ grieve. You _must_ cry. For he . . . he is dead," Isobel finished, her hankie coming up as the tears came. She held her head high enough to say, "You must acknowledge this. For it _has_ happened. I know you feel as if being dead were better than this. I know, for that same thought has haunted me ever since I heard the news. But you must start to grieve. We are burying the man we love today, and I will be there for you as you must be there for me. For we are burying your husband and my son, my _only_ son . . ." She wiped her tears with her disheveled hankie before standing to clasp Mary's cold gloved hand in hers. "I don't have much left in this world. I am without my good doctor. I am without the sunshine of my life. But I do have you and I have George. I must convince myself that is enough. I am concerned about you, Mary. You must realize that."

Mary used all her willpower to say in a low voice, "I do realize that."

"I want you to know that I am here for you any time you need me. I want you to know that I'm so sorry, and I want you to know that you are not alone in the world. You are not the only person in the world whose heart was broken the moment that car crashed. You have so much to live for, Mary," here with a little shake of her hand and a quick try at a half-smile, "you must live for it. As for me," and the half-smile disappeared (if it was even there at all), "I must live for you. For if I haven't got you and George and the family, why, I have nothing, and why, then," and her voice was low and sorrowful, "must I live at all?"

Mary didn't know what to say. It was too much, to admit that all this heartache she kept bottled up inside, wasn't solely hers. If Anna was right, she must mourn with her mother-in-law, the only woman who loved Matthew was much as she did. But to mourn was to accept. And she wasn't ready yet.

"Thank you, Isobel. You give me a great deal to consider," Mary said.

There was a gong and a knock at the door. Isobel said, wiping at her eyes, "There's Anna again. It must be time to go to the church." She composed herself as well as she could as she said lastly, "My door is always open to you, Mary."

"And the doors to Downton will always be open to you, Isobel," Mary said.

Isobel nodded and left, nodding to Anna in greeting. "M'lady, the procession is starting," Anna announced.

Mary felt a lump growing in her throat. "I'll be down in just a moment, Anna. Please, leave me."

Anna complied with her lady's request.

The second the door closed Mary's fragile façade melted away like snow under a strong sun. Her usually poker face was destroyed as it crumbled into a thousand pieces. They were such tiny pieces—how could they ever be put together into something whole again? Her hands came up to her sobbing mouth as they pummeled their way up from her aching chest. Isobel had brought her a reality she had come to terms with; all she asked was that Mary attempt to try to come to terms with them. Well, it was like turning on a faucet. Mary felt the presence of Matthew about this room, the room they shared together, disappear. They were wisps in the wind she couldn't catch with her bare hands. They slipped through her fingers as they followed some hallowed call, following the man who made them to his final resting place. Mary knew she'd see those wisps of memories like spirits join him down in the muddy grave.

She must go see him one last time. Her chest shook. She woke George up with her crying. He started crying, too.

Did he realize what his poor young mother was crying for? That the past few years with the man she loved, who loved her despite herself, were all that she was going to get? That she wasn't going to get those future years? That Matthew would never see his son grow up? That there would be no more sons or daughters who looked like their father, like sunshine?

She was crying for all she lost and for all she'd never get.

The poker face she put on at the funeral service was all she had strength to muster. Thank goodness Mama and Papa did all the talking, all the "Thank you's" for all the "So sorry for your loss's". The only words she could say, after she watched the coffin get buried, were to Isobel. She left the safe embrace of her parents to clasp Isobel's hand and say, as the sunshine poured down on them in the crowded graveyard, "I'm sorry, so sorry, Isobel."

Isobel's smile was a little less forced as she squeezed Mary's hand back. "I know, Mary. I know."

They walked, hand in hand, back to their clustered family. Behind them, the grave diggers started finishing burying the coffin containing the dead body of Matthew Crawley. The sunshine shining against his fresh wooden coffin disappeared into final darkness, gone.

 **You know who I miss? The answer will _always_ be Matthew Crawley.**

 **So Isobel and Mary are two of my favorite characters. Ah—my poor dears.**

 **Thanks for reading! Review?**


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